Letters from a French Actress
by ACleverName
Summary: Set between TCOTBP and DMC. A French actress finds herself in Tortuga. I stray from my normal JackElizabeth action to find some time for Norrington.
1. Chapter 1

Letters from a French Actress

_Here reproduced in their entirety for the first time_.

An excerpt from the forthcoming release, _The Crimson Sea: Firsthand Accounts of the Golden Age of Piracy _

17 September 17-- _Resolution. _

My dear Suzanne,

I write to you again, mid-Atlantic, having not heard whether you had received my previous letters or not. I hope that they have not been lost in transit nor that you have gone to the country without informing me, when you know I will make for your apartment in Lyon as soon as I land in Dieppe. It has been a long time since you have seen your cousin, and I hope that your family has not dissuaded you from replying to my letters.

I write from the ship because there is little to do on the crossing from the Indies, and because I fear I am growing ill. I confided in my last letter that two of my fellow passengers, both women of a certain age, had succumbed on board to death by flux. They were consigned to burial at sea, coffins being impractical—it would offend your pretty manners, Suzanne, to see one-quarter of what I have seen in the New World. In any case, I exercise as frequently on deck as they will permit a single woman—a disease on a dismal ship will not vanquish Lucie Daulnoir. Had I told you I have gone back to using my family name? I no longer intend to pursue the stage, nor do I keep my married name, so the bold actress Lucie Masquot—and the miserable wife, Lucie Garrick—will both die an obscure death.

Let me collect my thoughts a moment—one would think by now I would be comfortable or at least tolerant of the roiling of a ship—but sea travel still does not agree with me. Give me a carriage and four over a boat, yacht, junk, or ship, and I will be much indebted. I cannot recall where I had left you in my narrative—but you may not have received my other letters, and we may make it that much simpler.

I am not surprised that your mother mentioned no particulars in my marriage to Mr Garrick, the Englishman. The whole ill-favored affair is something I regret deeply, and perhaps it could be seen as just punishment for my family's taking of this theatrical life. But I cannot wish it away, and I have prayed, much I have prayed, for forgiveness. But I shall not allude to this shameful subject any longer; I leave it for another time. Suffice it to say, I was married a year ago on St Marcel's Day1. Of course, it was an English calendar, no saint's day observed.

I had some affection for Garrick before, but after I was married I considered him as much my jailer as my companion through life. I know not whether you are yet married, Suzanne, but consider the step determinedly if you have not: my English master owned me, and if I came back to France, or the stage, or anywhere without his consent—well, it would be to English court with me. A case I could never expect to win. I was understandably very unhappy.

My husband's financial security was not as firm as he had led me to believe. I expected disapproval from his family, after the marriage, being what I am. And so I was right in this respect. But, to debtors' prison Mr and Mrs Garrick would not go: my husband would escape his creditors by sailing to Jamaica, there to exploit a distant connection he had upon the overflowing fields of cane. Did I regard this scheme with guarded hesitancy? Yes. I urged my unthinking husband to return to France, where at least I had family. But he would not accept criticism, and I was sorely tempted to test his powers and escape myself. But I remained.

We sailed at the beginning of the year, and at this time I was so abused by our mean living that any change of scenery was welcomed. It was the last of a little money I had brought with me to London that we paid for passage—the last of my property that was my own since my marriage, aside from some clothes and sundry items. It was a cold passage, and dark, and I can scarcely give you any meaningful details of it, for I was laid up with sea-sickness most of the time. You, my cousin, who has never gone by boat across the world or even, I venture, across the Channel, cannot benefit from hearing the cramped conditions, the stench, the close quarters, the illness. My husband took ill days after I did, but he recovered more quickly than I. I lost sixteen pounds, Suzanne, and that I may never gain back.

I know not what picture is in your mind when you think of me, writing these letters to you, but I am grieved to say I have changed much since those happy days in the Comédie Française2. I still have the long black hair—it was ever an asset—and tallness, a grace of bearing, but where generousness and bounty characterized my figure before, I am thin now, a seemingly permanent reminder of my wasting illness. My large blue eyes, which I was often told were the most striking facet of my beauty, look larger than ever, almost bug-eyed, I am afraid, in a face too thin for them.

But I do bore you with mundane trifles. I suppose you must indulge one who has suffered illness and continues to suffer it. I did recover from the sea-sickness, but when the ship—the _Alexandria, _if you care to look it up—was in a day's sight of Jamaica, a terrible squall hit us. You will have to consult one more cognizant of sailing to make a tolerably well-informed picture of the particulars, but I understand that the _Alexandria _was an old ship, probably sailing her last merchant voyage. Her pumps worked slow to begin with, and caught in the storm, our captain thought it best—nay, crucial—that we land on the closest bit of rock. We'd been blown off course by quite a mark, I understand, getting dangerously trapped in the shoals of Rum Cay and then the Windward Passage.

It _was _a bit of rock, then, where we made berth. A volcanic rock formation in the west of that Caribbean Sea, a sordid complex of taverns and inns, with scarcely a respectable abode on it, called Tortuga3. It is called this, I am told, because of its aspect—a certain resemblance to a tortoise—and that there is another such island in the northwest of Spain, with the same name. The captain, who seemed none too fastidious a man though a competent pilot, nevertheless urged us to quit Tortuga as quickly as possible, for a more respectable venue—the island was a pirate port, not fit for upright people and surely no place to set up housekeeping. The nearest island was Spanish Hispaniola. The _Alexandria _herself would be sailing to Jamaica in a matter of days, after repairing the considerable damage to the hull. There were faster vessels headed in that direction leaving from the moment we came to the rock, but Mr Garrick was adamant, we had paid for passage on the _Alexandria_; we would wait for her repairs to be completed. He could be quite vehement, when it came to _my _money.

We took a room at an inn, for cheap, and you may ask by what means we paid for it. My gowns, Suzanne—the last bit of capital I personally owned. I protested. I did all that was in my power to dissuade my husband, but as nothing he had on his person amounted to the same value, I was forced to part with my gowns to a landlady fixing me with a cunning, cruel smile. Every day for a week, Mr Garrick would go to the docks to inquire about the _Alexandria. _He did not as such refuse my accompanying him, but to admit to a frank and base emotion, I was somewhat afraid to venture into the chaotic streets of Tortuga. But be not under the impression I spent my time unprofitably—my English speech had considerably improved since I had spent those months in London, and in Tortuga I did come by an English Bible. It was during this week that I practiced my letters in English, certain that were we to stay long in Jamaica, it was a language I would find almost as necessary as _ma langue maternelle _and Spanish.

Each day, however much I invested in the improvement of my mind, grew longer and longer, waiting for my husband to return home. I was still not feeling my best and ate little; Mr Garrick spoke little. I knew he was growing distant from me, by the fourth day no longer wishing to share my bed. I should have acted on my intuitions, Suzanne, for my senses proclaimed what my mind would not accept. One night, Mr Garrick did not come home. I spent the night in wait. The next morning, I myself, trembling, ventured to the docks. The _Alexandria _was mending sails and would be leaving a day later than expected. Of my husband, there was no sign. He had evidently taken passage on another ship the day before. How he had paid for it, I maintain ignorance.

I need not say, Suzanne, how I felt. It is not in my nature to mourn overlong, or to stay in a stupor over matters that concern myself, but I was nearly witless for several hours. To be so far from everything and everyone that mean much to one's heart, to be stranded without money and without hope in a strange land, and abandoned by a man to whom one meant so much . . . Well, it is useless. You may draw your own conclusions.

And I must make a conclusion here, for they are ringing bells about the _Resolution _for supper, and that I cannot miss. There is no one to bring me sustenance in this condition, and if I miss the hour of supper, I am to go hungry for a day or more. Let me seal this, then, and send it off to you immediately. I will write tomorrow.

Fondly,

your cousin,

Lucie

18 September 17--

My dear Suzanne,

It is not good for me to be writing at such an hour—the wee lights of the early morning. But I cannot sleep, Suzanne, and it is an affliction that has plagued me much since I came to the Caribbean. You may ask how I dare use a light in the crowded passenger quarters, when fire is a danger to be feared above all others. I sit on deck, right now, wrapped in my shawl, and I say it is something of a blessing to feel as alone as I do on deck, with only a few souls of the watch, who do not even look on me. I use the moonlight to write and let them think me mad if they will.

Writing helps me sleep, and I hope to find myself drowsy when I have made sufficient account of myself. But thankfully I am possessed of a practical bent and an imaginative mind, else how would I have succeeded at the theatre, else how would I have survived that unlucky day of abandonment on Tortuga?

I thought then: I must get away. There was no use trying to give chase to my errant husband; I had no notion of where he had gone. I must find passage on a ship to France, for on native soil I at least knew my own limits and allies. What had I to guarantee this voyage? The clothing on my back; a gold crucifix given by my mother, God keep her soul; and a very little money I had kept hidden from my husband's avaricious eyes. It was not nearly enough to get me to France—not even to mainland Jamaica. Some say, Suzanne, that an actress is merely a whore who happens to appear on stage, but I was not yet so far gone as to give myself in intimate union to any of the rum-addled wretches on the island.

Perhaps, I thought in the desperate ingenuity that comes with exposure to extreme peril, perhaps I could find amongst these thieves and blasphemers a man of some measure of power and wealth, who might protect me. I say in candor I was more beautiful, more sophisticated, and more refined than any of the women I had yet encountered—certainly the men of Tortuga would find me an exotic flower compared to their drab articles.

With that foolish hope, I left the docks for the largest inn on the island. As I believe I said, Tortuga is a complex of taverns, but it seemed more probable I would find a man of the elevation I sought in the largest, most frequented tavern. Once there, I spared a little of my coin for some victuals—I had not eaten since the day before. The occupation of eating also gave me the opportunity to study my surroundings unmolested, either by jealous trollops concerned I had invaded their territory, or foolish men thinking I was a tart.

I noticed at once how many tables had been set up with cards and dice. Shrewd observation showed me that there was only one table where the game was even reasonably more than one-sided. There were five players here, and the game was cavagnole. The stakes were somewhat high, consisting of motley mixes of Spanish eight, bars of gold, and brass coins of indeterminate origin. After the fifth man had folded for the last time, I saw my opening. Were I not an actress, Suzanne, would I have dared such a bold imposition? Would I have dared write to you, a respectable woman, of it?

Permit me now to alter my mode of narration to one more natural to storytelling, for your benefit and my ease of writing, and I will intrude with personal observations now as little as possible. Imagine, cousin, if you will, Lucie Daulnoir gliding into the empty seat of a dingy, card-playing table in a Tortuga dive. I had in my hand a small purse of all I owned, which I flung down in front of me and, with my most charming smile, "Well, gentlemen, what are the bets?"

Naturally the gamblers displayed reactions ranging from mild surprise to stupefied indignation. "Your kind can't play here!" exclaimed one of them, the leader so to speak, whom I will describe presently. "You're not allowed!"

"When you say 'your kind,' sir," I said, still smiling winningly, "do you mean women or . . .?"

"Women normally do not play," said the man sitting opposite me, "for we find they are not adept with cards."

How my eyes must have sparkled! "Name any game you like, sirs, and I am certain I shall win the hand."

There were protestations of disbelief and contempt. "What do you have to wager?"

I emptied my purse's contents to jeers. "That is not much to bet. We are accustomed to playing for more."

"That small pile will grow in size," I said, still smiling. "I cannot lose." This confident statement at last convinced him. Bets were placed, and the hand dealt. Suzanne, you may recall what delight I took in cards when you were very young. I was then a talented player, and the mania for cards, especially among women, is rampant in London. Gambling is there forbidden on Sundays, but many will still indulge behind shuttered windows. I had little chance to play because of the limited circle who would receive me after my marriage—but every hand I played then, I won.

The men at the table were perhaps piqued by my audacity, and winning the first hand was easy. At this time I pause to give you a picture of the four other men with whom I played. On my right was the ersatz leader of the group. Squat, the man was hearty in a way that suggested strength and endurance rather than sloth. He was dressed in drab clothes of brown fustian that had at one time been clean. From this, I gathered he was from a merchantman, of a high rank, if not a captain. What had brought him to this unexalted setting? Perhaps he had lost his command; perhaps circumstances had dropped him here on shore leave. In any case, he drank from his mug of dog's nose cautiously. I suspect he was of that severe sect of unbelievers, Presbyterians, because his looks for me were anger and disapproval rather than admiration. His skills at cards were middling, worse whenever he grew defensive.

On my left sat a swarthy, reedy fellow with a battered hat of woven straw pulled low over his eyes. He spoke little; his brown hands were stained with black, like soot. Was he a native of this land or what the Portuguese call _tangosmãos__4_Certainties were difficult to place in this man's case. He was calm in his drinking and his playing and was probably the second-most skilled player. His looks at me were furtive but eloquent.

Opposite him sat a skinny youngster who must have been less than twenty. He was one of those lanky youths who, by their trades are naturally inclined to working with their hands, but had developed toughness and sinew from a life at sea. He was probably a runaway apprentice who'd joined the Navy for adventure or else been shanghaied. Perhaps he had since escaped or was now on shore leave. His personality was easily legible from his guileless face, plain sailor's stocking cap, and the unashamed way in which he stared at me, as if I were the first woman he had ever seen. He was the least adept at the game, naturally enough, and had gotten this far mostly on sheer dumb luck.

On his right was the man of which I will write the most. It was clear that on his side he had intelligence, breeding, and a strength of presence impossible to disguise even in such dismal surroundings. For occupations I immediately pegged him as a disciplined officer, a captain at least, and indeed his mode of dress confirmed this: the dark blue uniform of the British Navy. It was, however, in dreadful disrepair, representing a desertion of command at least several months old. He was the most conspicuously armed of the four, though the only one who did not wear a hat: his dark, unwashed hair hung down his neck in the semblance of what was once a queue, mirroring his unkempt beard. Despite his general apathy and the fact that he had had only middling success thus far, I was certain that he was not playing to his fullest potential. Was that because of the glass of inebriation over his eyes—green eyes, Suzanne, of extraordinary brilliance—or some other reason? Presently, we shall see. He would stare baldly at me for moments at time, then lose interest and return to his drink. It will be no surprise to you that, despite his obvious lack of circumspection, Monsieur of the Navy was the shrewdest player seated at that table, and if I had a challenger there worthy of me, I knew it would be him.

Returning to the game. The second hand I won easily as well. The third I carried with scarcely more effort. I noticed that Monsieur le Marchand5 was growing vexed at this trend, and I felt it prudent to rein in my talents before he grew too hot and called me out for cheating. So the fourth hand I allowed the swarthy gentleman to carry. This seemed to satisfy M. le Marchand—at least I had shown myself to be capable of defeat. And why not? I allowed Monsieur of the Navy to win a fairly sizable pot the next round. This was when M. le Marchand raised the stakes considerably. "It seems I have not enough to make this bet," I said coyly.

"Any man not able to make a bet must leave," M. le Marchand said with characteristic disrespect. I got out of my seat, gathering my winnings into my purse, but I was not yet defeated. I leaned down to the ear of the boy. "You have not won a hand in quite some time," I observed. "Allow me to play for you, and I will split half the winnings with you. You may ask me at any time to walk away, and whatever I have won, half is yours."

"This is most irregular!" M. le Marchand blustered. The boy, I think, was willing enough to accept the offer, love-struck as he was, if not for his elder's complaint.

"And if you should lose?" the youth asked.

I would not lose—of course I could not. I was confident of this, and that is why I made the following caveat. "Should I lose, you shall have this purse. And the man who wins shall have _me_, in whatever capacity he chooses."

This, of course, got their attention; though the reactions varied between furious disbelief and covert pleasure. The boy was convinced, despite M. le Marchand's grumbling, and got out of his seat, standing behind me like a footman. My own footman! How you would have laughed. But the hand was dealt speedily, and I threw myself in with gusto. Oh, it was not without a little amusement I watched M. le Marchand grow redder and angrier with each pile of gold and silver I pulled toward myself and the boy. The boy was well-nigh ecstatic and hinted several times I should pull out. I demurred, having a substantial prize, and in no fear that I should not triumph.

At last the swarthy gentleman whistled through his teeth and admitted he had not enough to meet the stakes. Reluctantly he left his seat, though the look he gave me spoke volumes. "One final hand," I promised the boy, betting nearly all of the pile in front of me. The cards were dealt, bluffs were called, and then—

"My win, I believe." It was Monsieur of the Navy with an inscrutable smile, laying down his cards. He had won. And what was more, he had won _me. _I ask myself to this day if it was because I had grown too overconfident, too reckless—or if he only then came to the pinnacle of his shrewdness in playing. But the fact remained. M. le Marchand laughed cruelly; the boy was white-faced in shock. Monsieur of the Navy gathered the pile from the table, hiding it in his voluminous coat pockets. I sat in shock, though I tried at once to mask my surprise and shame. I had been sold, for cold pieces of money, the one thing I had always vowed I would never allow—no, Suzanne, I had sold _myself, _and the only person on earth to blame was me. I had not wept then in sixteen years, except for onstage, and traitorous tears surged into my eyes.

Pity I do not ask of you. I merely give you the facts. I handed over my purse to the boy, affecting lightheartedness. He felt sympathy for me, I think—he tried to press on me a bar of gold. "I keep my word," I said, in the voice I reserved for heroines like Antigone. I looked up to satisfy the will of the man to whom I now belonged, but he had already left the table. Left without his prize.

At this very inconclusive point in my narrative, I must finish this letter. Six bells will sound soon, and if I am to get any sleep today, it must be before the bustle below decks. I am feeling better, though you might not think it to look at me. I will take a moment's rest, then seal this letter up and send it to you. Later I will conclude this particular adventure of mine.

With much love, I am

your cousin,

Lucie

1 23 November.

2 The Comédie Française was founded in 1680.

3 A popular setting for pamphlets, ballads, and adventures, lying roughly three hundred miles northwest of Port Royal, Jamaica.

4 According to David Brion Davies, this is the term used by the Portuguese for people on the African coast of mixed race who adopted European dress and manners.

5 Literally, Sir Merchant. We reproduce the rather more lyric original French.


	2. Letter 3

19 September 17—

Dearest Suzanne,

I am uncertain whether the cool air last night above decks was the best medicine for my illness, for I am feeling somewhat weaker today. In any case, we are nearing our destination and should be there soon, God-willing, unless another storm throws us off track. I still have had no reply, to any of my letters, and can only assume it is difficult for me to reach you through mail.

Shall I return to the awful point in my narrative that left me vulnerable and quite alone with my grief and shame in Tortuga? Let me assure you, cousin, that the narrative has reached its lowest point and will continue to rise, however slowly and imperceptibly, until you find me here, almost home. Feel not grief then or anxiety, nor attempt to impose judgment on my next actions, which may seem contradictory and strange.

Monsieur of the Navy, the dissolute officer who had just won—by my own admission—my attentions had, as I wrote yesterday, stolen away, apparently without any regard for what he had left behind. Hurtful as this is to one's vanity, especially, as you may well reflect, to one who spent much of her life under the admiring gaze of men, it should have left me relieved. He was not going to follow through with the contract, for whatever reason, and I would still be free to make my fortune. And yet, as I am sure has not escaped your notice, I no longer had any avenue to that end aside from indiscriminately selling my body for a few pieces of eight—or to pawn my mother's crucifix. You will appreciate, Suzanne, the symbolic dilemma there: to give up my religion and the love of my mother, who had given me the cross before her death and long before I had ever thought of taking a career on the stage.

Unlike M. le Marchand, who had scorned my charms utterly, I had seen Monsieur of the Navy evince an interest in me, so there was reason to believe he would be sympathetic to my plight, after he had heard the particulars, and might be amenable to some mutually beneficial arrangement. Also, and let this observation be not shared among strangers (it being the kind of thing one speaks of only to a relative of the same sex), I found myself intrigued by the green eyes that promised so much and said so little. With this in mind, I scanned the tavern and discovered that the officer had gone to the bar, where he was pouring from a heavy tankard. He drank immoderately. I was not certain that he saw me at first. "Permit me, Monsieur, but what you won along with the money . . ."

He slammed down his mug. "I don't buy and sell people like chattel."

I decided then to appeal to his attentions for the fair sex, by gently touching the cuff of his coat, for I saw then that he was still honorable. "But I'm yours, to do with as you please . . ." A sudden appalling thought occurred to me, for this you find often enough with theatre folk. "Unless women are not to your—?"

He took another gulp of the drink, removing my hand from his sleeve. He peered down at me, squinting. "Are you tall, willowy with chestnut brown hair, striking brown eyes, a girl of little more than twenty?" For this I had no answer. Monsieur of the Navy was in love, and the bitterness with which he spoke immediately suggested he was spurned. "No, you are not," he said, "so do not bother me." He looked darkly into his drink. "Whores are only ever whores, and for that reason do not interest me."

I confess myself at a loss, Suzanne, for even with my talents of theatrical seduction, if a man of that caliber had his determination fixed on something, he was either to get it or to be mortally disappointed. There is little in consoling that kind of devotion. At that moment, M. le Marchand, who had come himself to the bar for more drink, noted me. I could see at once that the drink had not improved his mood. With the petty anger of a drunk, he pointed at me and said, "You wicked French harlot . . . You're a cheat, you are."

Monsieur of the Navy glanced down at him and then at me, taking a long draught. I attempted my best to look humble and respectable. "Monsieur, I assure you—"

Suddenly I felt the free hand of Monsieur of the Navy encircling my wrist, tightly. He held up my arm. "How much do you want for her? Apparently, by her own insistence, I own her." He grinned sarcastically at me. "I'll sell her to you."

The situation was rapidly becoming unconscionable. It was one thing to seek the protection of a man to whom one felt an allure, another to be sold hatefully. "Sir, I—"

The merchantman looked highly offended and yet too stupefied to say anything (a feat, I assure you). Monsieur of the Navy pushed me toward him, shouting now, "Come now, how much is she worth? Two pieces of eight? One?" I blushed for shame. He strode out toward the center of the tavern, still pinioning my wrist, roaring with bitterness borne of despair, "I'll open the bid up to anyone. How much for a French tart?"

Physical resistance would avail me nothing. "Would you treat your brown-eyed lady in such a manner?"

At this he did look down at me and seemed to mark me. He had awoken considerable interest in the onlookers, though, and they began to crowd around. The embarrassed merchant sputtered, "You misunderstand my meaning, sir. I have no appetites for such . . . fare. I meant only to punish her for the insolence of sitting down at our card table."

"You should have thought about that when you agreed to let her play. Or perhaps your greed then outweighed your scruples."

M. le Marchand could only stammer indignantly, "Are you insulting me?"

"When one has no honor to impugn …" Monsieur of the Navy said wistfully, taking another drink and letting go of my arm. He turned back to the bar. M. le Marchand appeared not to have understood his sarcasm, for he took the insult at face-value. He laid his arm on the shoulder of the officer, a sure request for a fight. "You don't want to fight me," the officer muttered into his drink.

Instinct struck me then, and I cried, "_Attention!_" before M. le Marchand's weighty punch could strike its mark. It never did, for Monsieur of the Navy then spun around and delivered to the merchant a buffet that sent him reeling. As soon as others rose to defend the merchant—the men of Tortuga dearly love a fight, over any other diversion—he had drawn his sword and, even inebriated, he was more than a match for anyone in the room. At last, with the tavern floor littered with the prone shapes of his opponents, broken chairs and bottles flung about like confetti, Monsieur of the Navy replaced his sword in his scabbard. Then he fell on his face.

I had read of men who fought on like lions unabated even after serious, nay, mortal injury, to finally fall when the threat was subdued. But I had never seen a drunk man fight like a sober one and then collapse into a puddle of his own vomit. The matron, I suppose, of the place had rightly been upset over the conflict and saw its instigator senseless amongst his victims. She turned to me and asked, "Is this your man?"

I thought the truth here better than any embroidery. "He won me in a card game!"

She looked me up and down and said with a practicality natural to her profession, "Then he's yours. Take him outside. Caused havoc, made a bloody mess—dirtied my floors, he has . . ."

Extraordinarily, he who I had taken for my protector was now under my protection! And to leave him then might have proved fatal to him. For a moment I did look longingly at his pockets, where the fortune that should have rightfully been mine waited; others in the tavern evidently had the same notions. By sheer physical effort I managed to roll him over, so that at least I could be certain he was breathing. He was. I reached then into his pocket and withdrew a few coins. "Here," I said to the nearest covetous neighbor, "help me take him outside, and this you shall have." Evidently it was enough of an enticement. My soul, I suspect, was no longer in danger of broaching the Eighth Commandment, but materially I had passed by a great opportunity. Let any man tell you now that actresses are so morally corrupt they cannot be given Christian burial.

I was helped then to move the officer to the verandah of the tavern, a little out of the way of busybodies and drunkards, and I brought out too a chair, into which my assistant helped me prop up the unconscious officer. Not much later, the heavens opened up with rain. Fortunately the verandah was covered a little by an overhang of banana leaves. As for myself, I crouched behind the chair—I, who had entertained hundreds in the Hôtel de Bourbon and had crouched for no man. How long would he be out? I wondered. When he did wake, would he shove me rudely aside again or abuse me? I remembered that I had the room in the inn for one day more, without additional payment. Even if he woke in a reasonable amount of time, he would need somewhere to recover.

He did wake. He gave me a glance that spoke of confusion. "What are you still doing here?"

I managed to say, "You're ill," before he began to hack violently. He turned his head and threw up on the ground. Remembering, myself, the awkwardness of being sick aboard ship, I was moved by genuine sympathy to take out my handkerchief. "Here." He grabbed it rudely and wiped his mouth. "You would have drowned in your own vomit if I hadn't stayed with you," I pointed out. I did not expect a response. He turned, his watery eyes at last focusing. Was it gratitude I saw? It was still raining, but we couldn't stay outside the tavern any longer. I took his arm and stood up. "Come on."

Monsieur of the Navy got reluctantly out of the chair. He wobbled a bit, then seemed to recover himself and tried not to lean on my arm. I began to pull him along and still with reluctance, he followed. "Where are we going?"

"I have a room at an inn," I replied, not certain it was wise to reveal any of the particulars to him at this time. We were both soaked in the rain, but the further we went, the faster he walked, the more he seemed to gain mastery of himself. He was broodingly silent. I hoped now that at least my conduct had endeared me to him. "You didn't hand me off to that man," I noted, with gratitude. He looked at me blankly. "My name is Lucie—"

"No names," he snapped. I started. "A man doesn't need to know the name of his whore." I took a deep breath, to keep myself from saying something unbecoming. Suzanne, I imagine you laugh, that I should have any self-control. Perhaps I didn't reply because he was heavy on my shoulder again. We had reached the inn, and I took the officer up the stairs to the tiny room I had shared until recently with Mr Garrick. I helped Monsieur of the Navy into the one chair in the room and went to sit on the floor.

"I'm not a whore, you know," I said quietly, wringing out the hem of my sopping and dirty gown. He raised an eyebrow. "I was an actress in the Comédie Française, this time last year playing Esther and Atalie1." He was staring, hazily in the dark. I got up and lit the one candle by tinder, leaving it on the small table that stood next to the chair. I sat down again. "But of course you are not familiar with French drama."

"On the contrary," he said suddenly. I looked up and waited. It was indeed rare for any Englishman to be interested in our French theatricals unless he was connected to the theatre. I very much doubted the English officer was. But I had been wrong before. "What else did you play in?" he asked.

Secretly, of course, I was delighted that he should ask about my dramatic career. "_Psyché__2__, L'Idylle sur la Paix__3__ . . ." _

He laughed! Such a harsh laugh, Suzanne, such bitterness! My husband never laughed like that and, believe me, he was a bitter man. "If that's true, why did you leave Paris?"

I attempted to maintain my dignity. "Why does any woman leave the stage?"

"You had a better offer—a man who would keep you."

His language was insufferably patronizing! "Yes, I had a patron."

He was about to speak when he began to cough again. I turned away, not wishing to see him vomit, but he recovered sufficiently to say, "And did he leave you here, this wonderful patron of yours?"

To tell the truth, Suzanne, I had not expected to be discussing my faithless husband with another so quickly and in such circumstances . . . "Yes, but not before he married me." _That _would surprise him!

"Why on Earth would he marry you?"

Taking off my shoes, I got to my feet and walked the length of the room in my grayed stockings. "I first met him—an Englishman named Garrick, if you want to know—in Paris when I was playing Phèdre4. He came often to the theatre. He was affectionate and persistent. I did become his mistress.

"He wanted exclusivity. So when he left for London, I went too. He procured for me small parts in the Drury Lane Theatre. Very small, you understand. Then he changed. He was always anxious, paranoid. He demanded all my time. He demanded I give up my work. He wanted me to marry him."

(Now you, my cousin, know that which I did not deign to write a few days ago. That is the sad affair of my marriage, quite truncated, but with brevity I think it improves somewhat.) The officer had been listening, at least it seemed to me, as I spoke these words.

"So you did." He meant that I did marry my patron.

"No, I refused him."

Wonder in his voice, yes, but still that bitterness. "Why?"

"The marriage would take me off the stage, and I was not yet ready to retire." I cleared my throat. "He was not Catholic. And I did not love him."

More laughter. He thumped the palm of his hand on the table; the light danced about the room. I was frightened for one moment that the candle would fall to the floor and we would go up in a blaze, but it stayed put. "You expect me to believe you would wait to marry for love?"

I turned to him, standing before the table. "When I first stepped foot on the stage, I vowed to myself I would be the mistress of any man I chose: he must be kind to me and provide me with security. But I would not marry until I loved."

He could not hold my gaze for long. He ran his fingernails over the grooves in the table. "But he was rich."

Mr Garrick _had _been rich, as I told you. "Yes."

"And that convinced you at long last."

Why, Suzanne, are we so often inclined to believe the worst of our fellow man? "No. Monsieur of the Navy, I do not know whether you are aware of the chapel at the edge of the Shoreditch and the Fleet, but marriages can be performed very cheap there. There is nothing to protect females from being given off to men of whom they do not approve."

There was sincere surprise and perhaps concern in his eyes—still green, amazingly so. Astonishing to find beauty in such strange places. "He drugged you and had you driven to the altar?"

I can scarcely believe, Suzanne, that the stoic quality I had instilled in so many of my roles would desert me at such a moment. I had told my story to this man whose name I did not even know as if reading a dry passage of _The Times, _that is to say, without its affecting me personally. His pronouncing it made my whole marriage seem that much more sordid and despicable. I thought of weeping. In my distress, I reverted to French, "_Je vous adjure." _

He did not seem to notice. "And still he left you?"

"With nothing." I whispered it, not really meaning to say it aloud, not looking at him. I looked up and caught his eye. He stared at me, and I at him, for a long moment, and I'm not sure that anything was actually communicated. It was merely a groping in the dark, for another human presence. One can be alone, even in the midst of people.

1 Both heroines of eponymous dramas by Racine, first staged in 1689 and 1691, respectively.

2 Molière tragi-comedy, first produced in 1671.

3 Molière and Jean-Baptiste Lully collaboration from 1685.

4 Another eponymous work by Racine (1677).


End file.
